The doctor took a breath and walked over to her sofa, more nervous than he thought he'd be. It was one thing to scoff in the safety of his own kitchen and tell himself that she was sixty and he'd been shot. But Sherlock‒damn he'd been shot too and she had reduced him to tears.

"Trousers down." She said, brushing some lint off her skirt.

John steeled himself and pushed his stained jeans down to his knees, revealing dark green boxers. He took a quick breath and got over her legs like he had seen Sherlock do and adjusted himself until he felt as comfortable as he could feel while bloodstained and partially naked over his landlady's lap. Why the hell had he agreed to this again? Sherlock appeared in the doorway, sipping a glass of water. John glanced up at him, then looked away, feeling shamed. He'd forgotten how undignified of a position this was.

"How's your shoulder?" Her hand rested on his scarred left shoulder and John lifted his head. "Does the position cause strain?" She asked.

"No." John said, surprised and even a little touched that she'd considered it.

"Good, have you been spanked before?" She asked.

"Uh, yeah." His face warmed. "When I was a kid. Not with the brush though."

"First time for everything. Do you need a reminder as to why you're over my lap?"

"Um, because of the wallpaper and because Sherlock and I were acting like spoiled children." And because by taking this punishment I'll feel like I'm in the 'family.' He didn't say that aloud.

"Good." She patted his back, "very good."

John felt her hand wrap around his hip. He licked his lips, bracing himself, and the first smack landed on his left cheek. He winced. Then right. Left, right, left…oh damn, this was actually hurting more than he'd anticipated. The heat built slowly, but seemed to go deep into his skin, turning into a throbbing, layered mess of pain. He wanted to squirm but forced himself not to. He didn't want a smack on the thigh and he knew that's exactly what he'd get. Mrs. Hudson did not fuck around.

He hung his head and clenched his fists against the carpet, smelling the scent of her faint perfume and the dust on the floor. He remembered training with his platoon, doing one-handed pushups in the blazing desert sun until his muscles screamed. This was kind of like that, only the blazing was concentrated on his arse and instead of his muscles aching it was his skin. He was starting to feel the pressure on his belly too, where he was resting on her legs‒he hoped that her legs weren't getting smashed and that it wasn't aggravating her hip. First Sherlock's and now his weight over her knees couldn't feel good.

The heat continued, the sting getting more intense. He grunted and couldn't help the little shift of his hips. Jeez, had it always hurt this bad? It was true that he had never been 'brushed' before, but he'd had a few mild spankings as a kid. Sure, he hadn't thought they were mild at the time, but compared to this? This stung and burned and damn well hurt. His instinct was to kick‒he remembered that from being a kid too. He was a kicker. That memory had been floating around the ether of his subconscious for thirty odd years, but now the brush had popped it up again, clear as day. It was just as tempting now to kick and thrash as it had been when he was little. Instead he crossed his ankles. He didn't want to kick and somehow nail Mrs. Hudson and hurt her.

She paused and John felt fingers on his waistband. He didn't care if she saw his arse, he honestly didn't, but she didn't tug his pants down like she had with Sherlock's. She lifted and looked briefly at his warmed cheeks before letting them snap back in place and hefting the brush up again. John supposed she just wanted to maintain the spirit of equality since she didn't know him as well, and really, he was pleased she was so conscientious. The brush continued to pop across his bottom.

She didn't offer any promises of giving him more like she had with Sherlock, and John realized it was because he wasn't saying anything. He didn't beg her to stop. He didn't groan and complain. It just wasn't his style. He had accepted his situation and he had agreed to the punishment. They all knew how badly this hurt and he had always been stoic. When he'd been shot he hadn't screamed or yelled (despite the massive, massive pain) and even as child, any bruises or injury were met with minimal fuss and tears were generally silent. Harry was the raucous one and he'd borne the stiff upper lip. Like now, Sherlock was the yeller and John apparently still stayed quiet. He would have laughed at this new knowledge if his arse wasn't hurting so bad.

Tears stung at his eyes and he focused on his breathing, the way he would tell injured soldiers and patients at the hospital to do so they could withstand the pain until medication could be administered. This was unpleasant but it was only temporary.

Finally she stopped and all the heat exploded on his bum. He hissed and shifted, tightening his arse muscles. Suddenly he was glad she hadn't done the whole thing bare. Now that would be unpleasant.

"Well done, John." Mrs. Hudson sounded legitimately impressed and then her soft hand was between his shoulders, stroking and massaging the nape of his neck as he relaxed in a ragged exhale of breath. She rubbed his back and John felt the anticipated buzzy mix of endorphins in his brain.

"Thanks." He muttered. It felt like the heat radiating off his backside could ignite a campfire.

He let her rub his back a bit longer (it really did feel nice) and then shuffled off her lap, coming to his knees on the floor. He reached his left hand back and cupped his cheek, frowning at the tender skin. He glanced up, blinking away tears. Sherlock was still standing in the doorway, the half-full glass of water in his hand. He was watching John with an expression of apprehensive fascination, made slightly disturbing by the fact that his suit was covered in blood, his detective brain gleaning every single last detail of what he'd just witnessed. Mrs. Hudson, meanwhile, looked about ready to leap up and hug him.

The mood in the air was surprisingly tense and it occurred to John that they were waiting for his reaction. Would he be upset‒would he declare that this whole thing was bullocks and he was moving out? No. John smiled softly. "Ow."

Sherlock smirked in a self-satisfied way and drank his water and Mrs. Hudson smiled down at him and just like that, the tense mood in the air dissipated and John knew that he was 'in.'

"Apologize to Sherlock, love." She said. "Then you get some water too."

John got up and slowly replaced his jeans, feeling oddly giddy, like he'd just passed a test. He blinked a few more times and shuffled over to his flatmate. "Sorry, Sherlock. I was an idiot."

"As was I." He agreed. John tiptoed into the kitchen and poured himself some water, drinking it down in a few gulps before coming back into the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson was standing there, holding the brush and Sherlock was sneering at it.

"Now both of you, back up to your flat. I want you to clean off as much of that…that" She gestured with the brush, pointing at each of them with it, "that bile as you can. When the flat is clean and both of you are washed, come back down here, understand?"

John hesitated. Back down? For what?

"Why?" Sherlock asked, suspicious. Mrs. Hudson gave him his brush back. Sherlock glared at it.

"Tea and bread pudding of course." She answered. "And if one of you wants to use my shower, go right ahead. I know you only have the one up there and I don't imagine you particularly want to be in those clothes any longer."

This was more than agreeable. John and Sherlock trudged back up the stairs. The brush soon found a new home in the fireplace amidst the charred, ashy remains of the wooden spoon.

They scrubbed the floor and the furniture. The bits of liver and heart were thrown back in the metal bowl and happily, with the use of Sherlock's high-powered crime scene strength cleaning powder, the stains came out of the table and sofa. The wallpaper, well, most of the red-brown came out. You wouldn't see a thing unless you were looking.

"You took that well." Sherlock muttered, wiping the floor.

"Oh, uh, thanks."

Scrub, scrub.

"Why did you agree to be spanked?"

"You can't deduce it?" John teased.

Sherlock bristled, looking affronted. "Of course I can." He glanced quickly over the doctor and John grinned. "You don't strike me as a masochist," Sherlock began.

"Nope."

"If you're looking to simply build your relationship with Mrs. Hudson, allowing yourself to get spanked by her seems like an odd way to go about it. Most people would just bring gifts or make time for social calls. We already know her though, and given her proximity to our flat, accomplishing these tasks wouldn't be difficult. You've never expressed an interest in being spanked by her before, though you've been aware for some time now that her and I have an arrangement. You might have felt especially bad about our foolish behavior and genuinely wanted to make amends with her. She clearly saw that spanking was the appropriate punishment, and you agreed. You've never been involved with my punishments before‒why would you be? They were never caused by something you directly initiated, until now."

John couldn't help the small grin that crossed his face as Sherlock worked through it all. Hearing the way his brain worked never got less amazing.

"Possibly…" Sherlock paused, thinking, and John could tell he was trying to look at the situation from a more emotionally-based standpoint now. "Possibly you may have wanted to appease her for her sake. Or you wanted to feel atonement for your own sake and you endured the spanking as a way of assuaging your own guilt. Or…" Sherlock went quiet and John tossed a bit of stomach in the bowl.

"Or…?" John prompted. Sherlock glanced up at him and looked away, almost shy now. "What?" John said. "C'mon, keep going. I'm not disagreeing with anything you're saying, mind."

"Or…" Sherlock licked his lips, encouraged. "Maybe you decided to endure her method of discipline out of some sense of camaraderie or, or friendship? With me?"

John knew how vulnerable Sherlock was making himself by admitting this, and John was pleased he had taken that step.

"Very good. Keep going." John said.

Sherlock relaxed. "So, to review: not a masochist, you do feel regret about our behavior and wanted to make amends somehow, you wanted to endure the spanking out of a sense of camaraderie. We were both responsible and you felt it fair to take the same punishment I was. Correct?"

Sherlock hadn't touched on John's idea that he would be included in their tiny family now if he agreed to the spanking. John was fine with that as he was well aware that Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock might not see it that way at all. Everything else Sherlock had listed, though, was‒

"Spot on." John told him. "A genius in all fields, it seems."

Sherlock ducked his head down to hide his smile, then let out an exasperated sound. He reached under the coffee table and retrieved his hiding mobile, rolling his eyes as he threw it on the sofa. John refrained from saying anything particularly snarky.

"Why did you never tell me she was your nanny?" John asked instead, tossing his scrubbing brush in the bucket of soapy water. The floor sparkled. The cleaning goop really worked.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was never relevant information. She was our nanny, then we lost touch, then she contacted me about her horrid husband, and the rest you know now. My own mother wasn't…well, I wouldn't be what I am today without Mrs. Hudson." He added quietly. John didn't answer, and they finished cleaning.

Sherlock eagerly went downstairs to bathe, and John took a moment to admire his arse in front of the mirror above the sink in the loo. It was a bright blushing shade of pink. She hadn't bruised him, but he knew he'd be sore for a few hours at least. He couldn't help smirking as he got in the shower. Just the idea that he'd been spanked because he and Sherlock had spilled cow organs all over the flat was just funny to him in a silly, absurd kind of way that he couldn't really articulate. He was glad it made him smile though. He bundled up his gross clothes .They were hardly a lost cause, as Sherlock's dry cleaner was amazing. John made a mental note to tip that woman.

He went back to Mrs. Hudson's flat, bum gently throbbing, and went right through her open door. The television was on and a game show was starting. Sherlock was on the sofa with a cup of tea, wearing pajama bottoms and a Tshirt and looking about fifteen years younger with his wet hair and bare feet.

John moved for the armchair when Mrs. Hudson called, "sit on the sofa, John. I'll bring you some tea."

He sat (carefully), crammed on the little sofa, close enough to his flatmate to feel body heat. No doubt she did that on purpose, to sort of reinforce the fact that they needed to get along with each other because they were friends and partners in crime, come hell or high cow parts. Mrs. Hudson bustled in, handing him a cup and cooing over him as she brushed some damp hair off his forehead and returned to the kitchen.

She brought them plates of bread pudding, offering them along with an indulgent smile. "Do you need anything else?" She asked. Seeing them all like this, one never would have thought that an hour ago she had them both over her knee, getting a hell of a smacking.

"No, thanks." They both murmured. Satisfied, she sat in the armchair.

John watched the show, sipping the tea and nibbling on the excellently made dessert, deciding that his first spanking really hadn't been too bad at all.

The End.

And there's part 5! As always, comments/critiques welcome. I know the nanny thing kind of came out of nowhere, but I hope it didn't seem too shoehorned in. Thanks for reading, everyone :)